


Not A Mask But A Mirror

by deanlosechester



Series: Horror Anthology [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Captivity, Character Death, Gen, Horror, M/M, Mild Gore, Original Character Death(s), Psychological Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:51:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1988805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlosechester/pseuds/deanlosechester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When we come face-to-face with the monsters, we may find ourselves not looking at a mask but at a mirror.” –Ramsay Campbell</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Mask But A Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I worked on this fic for so long I never thought it would see the light of day. I've spent a lot of time thinking about the lack of Teen Wolf horror fics--there are some creepy stories out there, but nothing really in the traditional vein of horror. So I wrote this bad boy. It's based off of Stephen King's "Misery" and I started it MONTHS before they brought Kate Argent back, so I was pissed. Probably wouldn't have finished this without the support of my friends, especially Heathyr and my roommate Bella. It's a lot shorter than I wanted it to be, but it's as done as I think it'll ever be.

 

“How long will you be gone?”

 

Stiles shifted the phone to his other ear, sliding his hotel key through the little slot on the door and pushing it open, tossing his bags onto the large bed.

 

“A week, Dad—remember? I’m going to help Lydia with her thesis. Well, I’m going to do her other work while she does her thesis. The rules of friendship, you know.”

 

He heard his father sigh. “And you’ve told the school?”

 

“No, I’ve left an entire class of Cryptobiology students to their own devices, never mind term papers and their third exam. Yes, Dad, my TA’s covering for me and I’ve got all the PowerPoints made. All Jack has to do is stand at the podium and try not to cry.”

 

They talked for a while after that—Stiles commented on Lydia buying him First Class tickets and how he would definitely, for real pay her back this time; his father tried not to sound too giddy about a date he had planned with Melissa McCall. They hung up, both smiling. Stiles planned on sleeping early so he could catch his 10 a.m. flight to Boston.

 

He never made it to the airport.

 

*

 

Stiles opened his eyes and immediately realized he wasn’t in Boston.

 

He remembered only getting half way across an intersection when a large black SUV hit his driver’s side, sending him spinning to a stop about ten feet away. He’s certain he screamed the entire time, hands grasping at the steering wheel, trying desperately to remember what to do when your car is doing 360’s on a back road in _bumfuck nowhere, California._

 

He remembered leaning against the window, turning his eyes up at a spider web of cracks where his temple had struck it, blood trickling down his cheek. He remembered the door swinging open, hands grabbing him, a shock of blonde hair.

 

He remembered her face, but the last time he’d seen Kate Argent, Peter Hale had ripped her throat out.

 

He was pulled from his panic as the door creaked open and a tall, middle-aged man came through the door, smiling.

 

“Hello, Mr. Stilinski,” the man said, setting a tray of tea and a first aid kit on the bedside table.

 

“Stiles” Stiles began automatically, stopping to cough, his throat dry. The man handed him a teacup, still smiling kindly, and Stiles eyed him suspiciously as he smelled, then sipped at the tea. He sat in silence for a moment, watching the man fiddle with the first aid kit, finally pulling out hydrogen peroxide and a roll of gauze.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Paul,” the man said, reaching over to pull a bandage from Stiles’ temple. “Paul Creed. I own this cabin, and I pulled you from your car after your crash.”

 

“What about—”

 

“You’ve got quite a nasty cut on that head of yours,” Paul interjected, pressing a peroxide-covered cloth to Stiles’ head. “You were a little delirious when I pulled you out. Got your name from your driver’s license.”

 

Stiles frowned. He _swore_ it was Kate he’d seen, but maybe Paul was right. Maybe he was just fuzzy from the head wound, and besides, Kate was dead. He’d seen her body. He listened for a while as Paul talked, telling him all about how the cabin had been his great-grandfather’s, built in 1875, and how it was the best place for deer hunting, always had been. Paul told him about his wife, Fiona, who’d died three years earlier from cancer. His face fell when he described the last few weeks of hospital stays.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles murmured, staring down at his hands where they lay clasped in his lap. “My mom was in the hospital a lot before she died. I was eleven.”

 

Paul’s face softened and he put a hand to Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, son.” It reminded him so much of his father that he became angry at himself when he realized he’d forgotten.

 

“My dad!” Stiles yelled, sitting up. “God, I have to call my dad, where’s my phone?”

 

“It must have fallen out of your pocket during the accident,” Paul said, looking remorseful. “You didn’t have a phone when I brought you in.”

 

Stiles closed his eyes, counting to three and gripping the sheets of the bed. “Could I borrow a phone? I need to call my dad; I need to tell him I’m okay.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Stiles, I don’t have a phone. We don’t get service out here, and the phone companies won’t come out to put in a landline.”

 

_How do you not have a phone? What century is this?_ Stiles thought, panic building in his chest.

 

Paul sat down on the bed and took Stiles by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “Stiles. Please calm down. I’m going to town to get some groceries, you can give me your dad’s number and I’ll call from town.”

 

“Why can’t I go with you?”

 

“Like I said, Stiles, you hit your head very hard. You need to rest. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure your father knows you’re okay.”

 

“Okay. Okay.” Stiles leaned back on the pillows, silently thanking whatever gods existed that this incredibly sad, nice, sweater-wearing man had found him instead of many of the other options that ran through Stiles’ head.

 

Paul smiled, fixing the blankets around Stiles and waited for him to write his father’s phone number on a piece of paper before standing and straightening his pants. He walked towards the door and stopped, turning so he could see Stiles over his shoulder.

 

“I’ll only be gone a few hours. Try to get some sleep. Drink the rest of your tea.”

 

Stiles tried not to think about how _weird_ the situation was. No cell phone, no landline, no nothing? No communication? But then he remembered Derek’s choice of living spaces—burned out shell of a house, abandoned train car, creepy loft, that one house owned by the creepy old lady who pinched his butt every time he visited—and he shrugged.

 

After listening to the sound of Paul’s car starting and driving away, Stiles realized that he was tired and turned over to sleep. He ignored the pounding in his head and closed his eyes. Paul would call his dad, he’d come get him, and this would be over. He’d get curly fries with his dad, and call Scott and tell him he needed to hurry up and get married because he’s been in too many car accidents in the past ten years to just wait, and he’d go see his mom’s grave because damn, he missed her, and…

 

He was just past that barrier where awake becomes asleep when he heard the door creak open and he held his breath.

 

“I know you’re awake, Stiles,” Kate Argent said, trailing a finger along the blankets, stopping near Stiles’ thigh. “Don’t be shy.”

 

Stiles turned, wincing, and glared up at Kate. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she looked just like her brother, righteous and terrifying. Four long scars ran down from her neck to her chest, jagged and pale from age—it’d been ten years since her “death”.

 

“I was there, I saw you die. Your throat was torn out. I saw your body in the morgue.”

 

Kate laughed, a sharp, fake sound, and smiled down at Stiles. “You know as well as I do there are ways to come back from the dead. I had too much to do, Stiles, I couldn’t stay in the ground forever.”

She leaned over him then, pressing her nose to his neck and breathing in deeply. His body shook with terror and he tried not to push her away, to push her over the edge, because that’s where Kate Argent stood.

 

She whispered threats against his skin like they were lovers. “You’re the only one, now, who knows.

 

They’ll never look for you here, Stiles; they’re not even going to know you’re gone until it’s too late. I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time, and I won’t let you get away easily.”

 

Then she kissed his cheek and left, closing the door behind her and leaving Stiles to curl up in bed and cry because he knew that he might not get out of there alive.

 

*

 

Stiles jerked awake to Paul repeating his name. His eyes flew open and he sat up quickly, pushing himself back against the headboard to get away. Paul stood next to the bed, hand outstretched, concern and confusion clear on his face. Stiles wouldn’t move, though, wouldn’t get an inch closer to someone who might be working with her, though he was still trying to figure out if he’d dreamt it or not.

 

“Where is she?” Stiles asked, glaring up at the man, who just looked more confused.

 

“Who?”

 

“Argent. Where’s Kate Argent? She was just—she was just here.”

 

Paul frowned, shaking his head. “Stiles, there’s no one else here. I don’t know any Kate.”

 

Stiles shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. No, no, Kate was there, he swore she’d been there.

 

She’d hovered over him like a ghost; she’d told him no one would ever find him.

 

_Perfect time to not be a werewolf_ , Stiles thought to himself, drawing his knees to his chest and gripping the blanket as tightly as possible. He was calmer, but still worried. After what had happened with the Nemeton almost a decade ago, hallucinating—or possibly hallucinating—dead murderous psychopaths made Stiles a little upset. Paul sat on the end of the bed, a brown paper bag in his hands. He smiled.

 

“I brought you some lunch from Grady’s. It’s my favorite diner in town. They make a mean grilled cheese.”

 

Stiles reached out and took the bag from the man, murmuring his thanks and softly adding, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Not a problem,” Paul said, smiling. “Like I said before, you hurt your head, and you’re in a strange house in the middle of nowhere. A nightmare isn’t completely out of the question. Just eat something, get some rest. A day or two and you’ll be good as new.”

 

“What about my dad?” Stiles asked, taking a bite of grilled cheese. He spoke around his mouthful. “Did you call him?”

 

“Yes, but it’s going to take him some time to get here. There was a large car accident on the highway just outside of Beacon Hills and he had to get it settled. I assured him you were in safe hands in the meantime.

 

He said to tell you that Scott had been worried.”

 

Paul was suspiciously polite. “Thanks,” he said, happy that his dad knew where he was and that it wouldn’t be long before he was out of this house and back home. He’d definitely stay with Dad for a few days, hang out with Scott, and maybe talk to Derek. Definitely talk to Derek. There were still too many questions, and Derek would understand, as he always did.

 

They got close in the years following the Nemeton incident, confiding in each other and letting each other in. And just like every Young Adult novel Stiles had ever perused, the closeness brought a lot of feelings to light that Stiles would have rather stayed hidden and buried. Then he went to school, and though they talked once a week at least, Stiles shoved his feelings way down where he wouldn’t have to deal with them. They had more important things to worry about without Stiles messing it all up by telling Derek he was in love with him, getting his heart broken, and staying away from him and inevitably letting something horrible happen because honestly, that pack was nothing without Stiles. Besides—they were too old for it by then. They’d seen too much to have some Pride and Prejudice-style reveal of repressed feelings.

 

He was fine with the way things were, for the most part. Derek came to him when he had a problem that needed solving. Stiles called him with questions for his exams, or when he was walking to his apartment from campus in the dark and didn’t like the silence after so many years of things lurking behind him. Once a month Derek and Scott came up to the campus to see him and they’d all go out, and when Stiles would get too drunk Derek would carry him over his shoulder and put him in bed. When Stiles woke up the next morning Derek would be there, sleeping, calm and safe and almost happy.

 

It worked for them, but after this, it might not be enough to just let things happen.

 

Half an hour later, when Paul left Stiles to take his dishes to the kitchen, Stiles went to the bathroom and found a pink smear of lipstick on his right cheek.

 

*

 

Stiles spent three hours pacing in the bathroom, tears welling up in his eyes, raking his hands through his hair and leaning against the sink. He hasn’t been this fucked up since the Nemeton, and that was ten years ago. A fucking decade and he’s dealt with faeries, trolls, ghosts, even the occasional vrykolaka, but hallucinating his friend’s dead psycho aunt? That’s too fucking much.

 

“Come on, Stiles,” he whispered to himself. “Keep your cool, dude, you’re alright. You’re gonna get out of this.”

 

He stayed leaning against the sink for a while, head on his arms and trying to steady his breathing. His dad would be there soon. He was going to go home. Everything was going to be okay.

 

After a while he emerged from the bathroom to find a glass of water and two small pink pills on the bedside table with a note that read _“For your headache. –Paul”_

 

He took the pills and drained the glass before lying down and curling into a tiny ball. After about ten minutes he felt his eyelids begin to ache and his body begin to grow heavy. His legs began to tingle, and so did his arms.

 

“What did I take?” Stiles whispered, bringing a hand in front of his face and whimpering as his vision blurred. “What—Paul!”

 

No one answered. Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck. “Paul!” he cried, panic rising, breath quickening, knowing that this fucking asshole drugged him and he really should have seen it coming but he didn’t. He’d been so freaked out about Kate that he didn’t even think about taking a closer look at the pills Paul had given him. They'd looked like normal ibuprofen at first.

 

He just wanted his headache to go away but then his eyes were fluttering and he was slipping into darkness just in time to hear Kate say, “Is he out?”

 

*

 

“Give him some more Morphine.”

 

The days went by in a haze of needle pricks and zip ties, Kate Argent looming over him at every moment and Stiles vaguely remembered spitting in Paul’s face when he gave him his seventh—eighth?—dose of the drugs they were pumping into him. He couldn’t believe that Paul was working with Kate, that Kate was alive, and that he’d been so _stupid_ in believing everything that came out of Paul’s mouth.

 

His legs were heavy, his hands felt numb, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes long enough to try and figure something out. Thinking hurt.

 

He felt the bed dip as someone sat next to him.

 

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Paul said, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder where it was pressed into the mattress. “I didn’t—I didn’t know how involved I was going to be.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Paul sighed, his hand squeezing his shoulder before he stood. Stiles heard him walk towards the door and managed to turn his head just enough to see him gripping the doorknob tightly.

 

“It would be so much worse if I wasn’t here,” Paul said, and let the door shut behind him.

 

Stiles lay there, prone and silent, trying to do anything but think about the horrors that Kate had planned for him, the things she would have done had Paul not been around to “take care of him.” It didn’t matter, though. Paul was still helping her keep him hostage, was still keeping him drugged and tied up and was probably so afraid of Kate that he wouldn’t even think of helping Stiles escape.

 

The door opened and the sound of footsteps approached the bed, but his guest didn’t speak. All Stiles could hear was the steady in-out, in-out of their breathing and the frantic beating of his heart.

 

_Paul?_ Stiles thought, flexing his fingers against the bed.

 

Stiles turned his head, eyes nearly closed, like in sleep, but open enough that he could see her standing there through his eyelashes. He kept still. Kate stood silent, head raising an inch, appraising. She took gentle steps to the bedside, staying in his blind spot. Stiles kept his breathing regular, forced himself to relax back into the bed, his apparent ‘nightmare’ over.

 

She never took her eyes off of him, even as she took the nearly empty pitcher to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light as she filled it. When she returned, she set the glass down with a thud, and taking one last, long look at his still body, finally turned and left.

 

Stiles let out a slow, shuddering breath, terrified that somehow, she knew.

  
  


*

 

Paul stopped coming in to give him shots, and by the fourth day of absence, Stiles knew he wasn’t going to come back.

 

There was no way to reason with her, Stiles knew, so he just kept his mouth shut. He didn’t move when she came in, didn’t even look at her when she stuck the needles in his skin over and over again. He just did what he was told--he didn’t even bite her when she fed him, despite his deep desire to do so.

 

Stiles had been in that room for god-knows how many days when the shots slowly got smaller, and less frequent, until finally Kate stopped drugging him altogether. She even untied his wrists, keeping a thick chain around his ankle that connected him to the bed.

 

He spent most of the next few days pacing around the room, stretching out his sore muscles. He’d been tied down to the bed for the better part of two weeks and it was difficult to move around at first. Painful. He started trying the windows and doors in a futile attempt to find a way to escape. One morning he opened the closet to grab a sweater--“just in case you get cold, babe”--his gaze focused on the wire hanger the sweater hung on and smiled. When he heard Kate coming he would get back in the bed, carefully so the chain didn’t make so much noise, and curled up.

 

He wanted her to trust him, and by the end of the week, she did.

 

*

 

He’d been off his chain for three days when she left him alone in the cabin.

 

He sat up and reached over the side of the bed, pulling the hanger out from the space between the mattress and the box spring. He’d already unwound it, and he held his breath as he walked to the door and knelt down, sticking the end of the hanger in the keyhole and wiggling.

 

“‘Learn how to pick locks’ they said,” Stiles mumbled to himself, “‘it’ll come in handy.’ God, fuck my life.”

 

After six or seven fruitless attempts to pick the lock, he heard a small _click_ , and he was able to open the door and enter the hallway of the cabin.

 

He was greeted first by a long, full-length mirror. It was old and dirty, and Stiles stood in front of it and gaped at his reflection. He had lost weight and his clothes hung loosely on his body. His skin was sallow, his cheeks and eyes sunken in. He looked like a skeleton. He didn’t know how many days or weeks he’d spent in that room, but the toll it took on him was significant.

 

“Jesus,” he whispered, pulling his shirt up and examining his ribs.

 

_I have to get out of here._

 

Walking carefully on the balls of his feet so he didn’t make noise just in case someone was around, Stiles crept slowly down the stairs, holding onto the banister with shaking hands. He was terrified that the minute he would hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs, Kate would walk through the door, but he made it to the bottom safely. Checking the windows every now and then, he padded around the house, taking note of where everything was. Living room, kitchen, hallway. Stairwell. Wrap-around porch.

 

There was a small kitchen to the right of the front door and Stiles stood in the middle of it, staring into the open-faced cabinets and thinking about taking something to eat, but the small Melissa-McCall voice in his head told him eating something after not having solid food for so long was a bad idea.

 

He wandered into the living area and took stock of the far right wall, which had a giant bookshelf filled with books. He skimmed his fingers along the spines as he read the titles, ranging from nonfiction true crime to mystery thriller to young adult fantasy. He looked into the fish tank that sat next to the bookshelf and counted the little neon-colored fish, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

There were a row of rooms in the hall adjacent to the living room: two small bedrooms, a locked room he assumed was Kate’s weapons room, and a bathroom.

 

At the end of the hall stood an old white door, spots of wood showing where the paint had chipped. Sunlight shone through the bathroom window and landed right on the door. It was dirty and dark yet Stiles went to it anyway, somehow drawn to the door looming at the end of the hallway.

 

He pushed the door open and stepped into the dark room, blinking rapidly as he tried to adjust to the sudden darkness. A small shaft of light peeked through the curtains on the window and Stiles moved toward it, arms spread out so as not to run into anything.

 

After a few run-ins with shelves and tables--complete with a stubbed toe--Stiles made it to the window. His brow furrowed at the soft, almost furry texture of the curtains and pulled them sharply to the side.

 

The room was covered in animal pelts.

 

Stiles covered his mouth and looked around the room, body lurching as he gagged. Animal skins were nailed to the wall from floor to ceiling, wolfsbane weaving around each pelt. He fell back against the wall and crouched down, sucking in panicked breaths.

 

Slowly he stood up, wiping his brow, and turned to the wall.

 

Wolfsbane had fallen from where he’d leaned against it and Stiles watched, mouth open in abject horror as the animal pelts shrank back and paled, fur retreating into the skin. He brought a shaking hand up and reached out to the wall.

 

The pelts had become wrinkled pieces of human skin, tan and dry from years of being nailed to the wall. How many people--how many families--has Kate enshrined here?

 

Stiles dropped to his knees and gagged, acid burning his throat. He hadn’t had anything to eat except for broth in weeks. There was hardly anything to throw up and he grimaced as he spat bile onto the hardwood floor. He thought about cleaning it up to make sure Kate didn’t know he’d been down there but fuck it, she deserved his sickness in her floors even though she had enough sickness of her own.

 

He stood, brushing his sweatpants off and looking around the room, trying as hard as possible to avoid looking at the patches of human skin on the wall next to the window. The room, in addition to its macabre wallpaper, was full of what could only be described as knickknacks; tables covered in papers, totems, and pendants. Stiles picked up a small vial filled with a clear liquid marked “Basilisk Venom” and slipped it into the waistband of his pants.

 

Stiles wandered over to a table covered in binders and opened one, idly flipping the pages, raising an eyebrow at some of the weirder contents. Locks of hair, pieces of clothing, a page from a book.

 

He closed the book and reached out to touch a tall candle when another binder caught his eye, Kate’s neat, blocky handwriting standing out against the typeface of the other labels.

 

Beacon Hills.

 

Reaching out with a shaking hand, Stiles picked the binder up and opened it to the first page.

 

_March 18, 2003._

_Subject sighted at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital with husband and son. After MRI, doctors report prognosis negative._

_March 25, 2003._

_Subject shows the following signs of contamination: loss of appetite; cutting, scratching, and biting at skin; change in voice (subject’s son heard commenting on difference in hospital); speaking previously unknown foreign language; and possible clairvoyance._

_March 31, 2003._

_Subject is rapidly deteriorating. Attacked young son on March 29 and ripped crucifix from neck, throwing it at husband. Doctors sedated the patient._

_April 3, 2003._

_Subject neutralized._

 

Stiles’ hands shook as he read the log and he took a deep breath after reading the final line. _Subject neutralized_. April third, the day his mother died.

 

He turned to the next page and let his fingers trail along the tiny golden crucifix attached to the page. Any doubt, any hope for coincidence that Stiles had was shattered when he saw his mother’s necklace. Kate Argent killed his mother.

 

He was so lost in his horror that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him and when a hand reached around and pressed a wet cloth to his face he didn’t even have time to react before he was swept into darkness.

 

*

 

_Stiles had been gone for three weeks and some of the pack was starting to lose hope._

_The Sheriff had shown up on Derek’s doorstep, saying Stiles’ car had been found up north, totaled. Stiles wasn’t anywhere in sight._

_They drove up there together without telling anyone else just so they could see it for themselves, and Derek had never felt so helpless._

_Stiles’ car had already been towed away but there were still dark tire tracks on the road and car parts strewn about. Derek found Stiles’ phone about ten feet away from where his car had been; it was broken beyond repair but Derek put it in his pocket anyway._

_After they told the pack they all split up and scoured the area, knocking on doors and running through the surrounding woods trying to find any sign of Stiles, but there was nothing. It made Derek sick. He felt like an idiot for not even being able to smell him on anything even though he knew Stiles’ scent more than any other._

_Once Stiles had been missing for a week, Lydia flew back to Beacon Hills to join the search, and the guilt in her eyes was easy to read. She felt responsible, she said, because Stiles had been on his way to see her. Derek told her it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but after three weeks he wasn’t sure he believed that anymore._

_Derek started staying in a hotel near where Stiles disappeared about a week and a half after he went missing and he was still there, still went out every day looking for him and came home just as scared and dejected as he had felt the first day he found out Stiles was gone._

_At four in the afternoon the front desk called and said Derek had a package waiting for him in the office. When he went down there the lobby was empty except for a small cardboard box marked_ Derek Hale _on the front desk. He breathed in deeply, eyes widening at the smells he caught, and tore open the box with his claws._

_In the center of the box lay Stiles’ favorite flannel shirt, torn and bloody, and inside of it was a piece of a wolf’s pelt tied together with wolfsbane._

_Kate Argent was alive._

 

*

 

Stiles groaned as he came to, eyes fluttering open and grimacing at the pain in his head. His hands were suspended from a wooden beam that ran overhead, chains attached to hooks coming from the beam. He was in a barn--there was hay everywhere and there were horses in the stalls.

 

He pulled hopelessly at the chains, hands wrapping around them and pulling as hard as he could. Nothing. He knew nothing would happen but he felt like he had to try, and he did, spending too much time and energy trying to pull the hooks from the wood.

 

“What are you doing, Stiles?”

 

Stiles froze, panting, sweat dripping from his forehead; he was so weak, just pulling at the chains had worn him down. He refused to look at her when she stepped through the hay and came around to inspect him, pressing his mouth closed and turning his head to the side.

 

Clicking her tongue, Kate reached up and turned his head to face her. “We were doing so well, Stiles. And then you decided to--what _were_ you planning on doing, exactly?” She held up the vial of Basilisk Venom he had taken from her room.

 

Stiles trembled. He hated Kate, hated her more than anything in the entire world, but he also feared her. It would be stupid not to.

 

Kate shook her head, pocketing the vial. “I had so much faith in you, Stiles. But you broke my trust.”

 

She walked around the barn for a few moments, deciding what to do. Eventually she walked into a small room to the right of the barn door--the tack room, Stiles assumed.

 

She came back with a long silver bat, smiling.

 

“I don’t like it when people break my trust,” she said, walking up to Stiles, getting in his face. He spit in her eye.

 

“Fuck!” she yelled, stepping back and wiping her eye. She paced back and forth in front of him murmuring nonsense to herself, running her hands through her hair and pulling at it occasionally. _She’s fucking crazy._

 

She turned to him, eyes flashing. “I was going to let you off easy, since I like you so much. But now…”

 

She slid her hands down the bat, gripping the handle, walking over to Stiles and raising it high.

 

“No, Kate, please, I’m--”

 

She brought the bat down at an angle against Stiles’ left knee.

 

It happened so quickly that he barely had time to react, mouth opening in a silent scream and all of the air rushing from his lungs. His vision blurred and tears fell from his eyes as he heard his knee break with a sickening _crack._

 

Kate walked in circles around him, laughing as Stiles sobbed and begged.

 

“Please, please, please,” he repeated, sweat and tears covering his face, “please let me go please--please let me go home.”

 

Kate barked out a laugh. Stiles’ leg was numb.

 

She waited for him to catch his breath before leaning over and whispering in his ear. “I sent your pack a message.”

 

Stiles jerked his head up, head swimming, trying to turn and look at Kate. “What?”

 

Walking around to face him, she smiled. “I wanted them to know exactly what they were up against.”

 

She pressed the end of the bat under Stiles’ chin, pushing up with force. “Do you know what I could do to you, Stiles? I could make sure there was nothing left for precious Derek to bury.”

 

Stiles said nothing, just stared at her and cried silently, wishing he’d passed out from the pain.

 

She reached a hand up to stroke Stiles’ dirty cheek. “I’m not gonna do that, though. I’ve been watching you for far too long to ruin you that easily.”

 

He flinched away from her. “Why?”

 

She gave him an incredulous look. “After what happened with your mother, I had to make sure you didn’t get infected, too.”

 

“Infected--infected with what?”

 

“Werewolves aren’t the only thing I go after, Stiles,” Kate said. For a moment she looked haunted, but then the crazed look was back in her eyes. “I got a call and was told to observe Claudia Stilinski because she exhibited all of the signs for demonic possession. It was my job to take her out--a few spells and prayers, a syringe of air between the toes… No one suspected a thing.”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to, I don’t know, exorcise them? You know, old priest, young priest?”

 

Kate gave him a severe look. “Her soul was damned from the beginning. That’s what demons do, Stiles: they ruin your soul. Exorcism doesn’t work, not really. Your mother was in hell the minute the demon took her body. That’s what made her so different.”

 

Stiles laughed, harsh and bitter. “She had frontotemporal dementia, you fucking lunatic. She was literally losing her mind, she wasn’t _possessed_.”

 

This was new information to Kate, apparently, because she froze. “What?”

 

Stiles’ leg was beginning to hurt, a sharp, searing pain that made him miss the drugs Kate had pumped into him weeks ago. He looked her in the eye. “You’re a piece of shit who killed an innocent woman.”

 

Kate was furious, eyes blazing, bat raised. Ready to strike. Stiles flinched but held her gaze. “So why take me?”

 

She lowered the bat a few inches. “Demons hold grudges. We always keep track of the families, just in case the demon comes back and goes after someone else. I got a call about nine years ago, about you, but when I got to Beacon Hills you seemed normal. They wanted me to keep tabs on you.” She smiled again, predatory. “You’ve always been so interesting to us. When we heard you were going to pass right through my backyard, well… I couldn’t resist the temptation to just keep you.”

 

Stiles was shaking. She must have shown up when the Nogitsune had taken over his body. “Who is ‘we’?”

 

“Shh,” Kate said. “That’s a secret.”

 

“You’re insane,” Stiles whispered. The words just slipped out, and they kept coming. “You were a piece of shit ten years ago and you’re a piece of shit now. I hope Derek and the others ruin everything. You’re not going to get away with it.” He felt like he was stuck in some movie, saying those words, but he believed it.

 

“Honey,” Kate said, smiling, “I already have.”

 

Then she raised the bat again, bringing it crashing against his right knee. This time, the screams came freely, raw and loud. Stiles hoped somewhere, Derek could hear him screaming.

 

Stiles must have blacked out because when he opened his eyes, he was sobbing against Kate’s chest, begging for his mother. She was stroking his hair, shushing him softly, but she was smiling. He pushed violently away from her.

 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Stiles said, voice shaking. He looked down at his knees, and felt his stomach lurch as he saw the way his legs bent to the side, bone sticking through the sweatpants he’d been wearing. He could hardly feel his legs anymore.

 

Kate’s eyes were empty as she smiled. “Stiles, come on, we’re friends, right?” She reached out for him.

 

“I said don’t fucking touch me, you crazy bitch!” he screamed, using all of his strength to slam the palm of his hand into her nose. She fell backwards, dazed, and Stiles held on, falling on top of her and using her momentum to pull himself up. His ruined knees were on either side of her stomach, and her nose was bleeding.

 

He looked to his right and saw the chains she’d used to keep him suspended from the overhead beam and reached out to grab them, wrapping them around her throat.

 

He tightened the chains and watched her come to, eyes wide and looking frightened for the first time. His legs hurt more than anything and he wanted to pass out but he held on; you either fight darkness or yield to it, and Stiles was never one to give up.

 

His face was inches away from Kate’s; Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because he was so tired or because he wanted to feel the moment the life left her.

 

Evil seeped into him like a dampness in his bones, and for the first time in weeks, Stiles felt alive.

 

*

 

By the time Derek and the rest of the pack burst through the old barn doors, Stiles had fainted on top of Kate’s lifeless body. He’d held the chains so tightly that her throat was cut and he was covered in her blood.

 

“Stiles, oh my god,” his father said, pulling him off of Kate and slapping his face gently. “Stiles, wake up. Stiles!”

 

 

*

 

Two weeks had passed since they brought him home from the hospital and Derek hadn’t left his side once.

 

“You were gone for over a month,” Derek said after the first week. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for at least ten years.” He’d smiled, then, and Stiles felt guilty knowing how much time they’d spent searching for him.

 

They waited until the two week mark to bury the pelts of Derek’s family along with the other victims so that Stiles would be better rested. At the last minute Stiles tossed his mother’s crucifix in the grave and held his father’s hand. They both cried. Derek didn’t say a word.

 

Later that night, Stiles and Derek were lying in bed, talking about Derek moving into Stiles’ apartment once he could wheel himself around in his wheelchair without help. His knees had been completely shattered and healing was going to take time. Derek was serious about not letting Stiles out of his sight; he’d been through too much, he said, to leave Stiles alone and risk losing him again.

 

After a while, Derek fell asleep, and Stiles maneuvered himself so he could lean over the side of his bed and reach into the space between his mattress and box spring.

 

Stiles pulled out a thick piece of Kate Argent’s long blonde hair.

 

He smiled.

 

 

 


End file.
